


You Need Only Ask (Politely)

by Starcrossedsky



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (also sort of), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, BDSM, Established Relationship, Interactive Fiction, Living Clothing, Other, Porn With Plot, Sensory Deprivation, Soul Bond, Supernatural Romance AU, Telepathy, is there a tag for sentient slime boyfriends, more YA tropes than a YA reclist, penetration of an ambiguous orifice, yoga but as a BDSM activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starcrossedsky/pseuds/Starcrossedsky
Summary: Or, alternately, Ask (Politely) and Ye Shall Receive.Or: I came up with an undead slime!Emet modern AU because I'm incredibly weak to YA tropes and proceeded to write it as an interactive fiction to a large group of thirsty friends. This is the result.I don't know what you're expecting.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	You Need Only Ask (Politely)

**Author's Note:**

> So, explanation: This is an AU fic that is being live-written, interactively, with a Particular Server devoted to a Particular Character. I, as the author, present a prompt with a poll, and then the rest of the server decides the results of the poll, which feed into the next prompt. For the sake of clarity, only the chosen prompts are included in this record (indicated by -> arrows). Although this is presented as a single 'chapter,' it is two sessions worth of writing.
> 
> Effort is taken to keep the reader-figure gender neutral (including during penetrative sex scenes). Further setting establishment (as part of the original set-up for the interactive portions) included below. Behold the magic of the second-person perspective, and tremble before its might.

THE SETTING: Ambiguous contemporary. Urban, some city with enough of a population to have skyscrapers and multiple universities.  
THE GENRE: That weird spot between horror/thriller and fantasy that gets called "Supernatural," with an obvious dash of romance.  
THE MAN: He's an architecture professor - a little young-seeming for the profession, given that most architects start making their names in their forties and he can't be far past his mid-thirties, but you can't deny that Emet-Selch has enough genius to make up for it. Aside from his university pay, he's also been commissioned to design a building on the southern side of downtown, construction of which broke ground a few weeks ago.

You met him at one of those indie coffeeshops where offbeat and subculture people tend to congregate, where he took an interest in some project you were working on, and actually had intelligent things to say on the subject, rather than it just being a clear case where a guy pretends to be interested in your work because he's interested in your body. He hasn't spoken too much about his past, but you've gotten enough idea that he's clearly some kind of absurd polymath with a couple fingers in every subject that's come up between you.

You've known him about six months at this point, long enough to become aware that there are just one or two things off about him. For one thing, you've never noticed him to have needed a haircut, even though that hairstyle should require regular maintenance. For another, he doesn't seem to have any deep relationships outside his work - no roommates, exes, family, drinking buddies. For a third, although he complains regularly about being tired through the afternoons, come night time you don't think you've ever seen him sleep, even the couple times he stayed over at your place (never his) after a date.

Also there's a wild conspiracy theory about a demonic glyph built into his 'scraper, but that's just the internet for you.  
THE SCENE: It's a wet and rainy evening, some weekend night when the two of you don't have any plans. You're a little underdressed and chilly, out later than you planned (though not late, the sun only set about an hour ago). You're leaving through the alley entrance of some other friend's apartments when you hear a sound like something - like a body - hitting a concrete wall, and then a man's voice (unfamiliar) shouting something, from about a block away. Immediately after, there is a ripple of... it feels like wind even though the air around you didn't move, making all your hair stand up on end.

It smells, suddenly, like him.

-> Investigate the disturbance.

Pulling your hood up, you edge around the building towards the source of the noise. You peek around the corner and see a small group of people - two women and a man. Both women seem underdressed, in brightly colored outfits and heedless of the drizzle falling into their hair, though the shorter one is fishing around in her bag and, as you watch, pulls out one of those super cutesy clear-with-colored patterns umbrellas. The man is at least dressed for the weather somewhat, in a heavy canvas trenchcoat; he stands with his fist pounded into the wall like he just punched it.

There's... You squint, but there's a bit of an impact crater around his fist. He's buff, but not that buff, surely?

The two women, on the other hand, are looking intently at... the storm drain?

"No point sticking around here," the taller woman says. "He's gone, the slippery bastard. Let's get out of here before we attract attention."

The smell of Emet-Selch remains in the air, though there's no sign of him.

-> Continue to observe

The man sighs, and stands up from the wall, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes with one hand. "Yeah. Hopefully nobody gets it in their heads to call the cops because of the shouting or something."

"And whose fault would that be if they did?" the taller woman asks, hands on her hips as she steps closer to the man, but there's a good humor about it. Even though they look nothing alike - the man is thick, blond, and light-skinned, where the woman is slim, tanned, and dark-haired - there's an air of familiarity that seems more like an older sister heckling her younger brother.

"Yeah, yeah," the man says. "My bad."

The shorter woman, the youngest of the group, looks at the storm drain and hums quietly. "He might just be waiting for us to leave before he comes out."

"If he is," the taller woman replies, "he can still wait a lot longer than us, especially if it keeps raining all night."

"I guess you're right," the smaller woman replies. She lifts her umbrella so that the taller woman can join her under it, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and the three start to leave.

-> Investigate the storm drain

Once the trio is definitely gone - at about the point the rain is moving from a drizzle into real rain - you make your way around the building and peek down into the storm drain. It's one of the ones with the weird V patterns of slats that you're always terrified of dropping your phone or something down, but it looks normal, aside from the gurgle of fresh rain flowing into it.

You crouch own to look closer, and you realize that there is something weird about it - the underside of the grate, what you can see of it, has a shiny black coating to it that isn't quite right for just water, dirt, and motor oil runoff. It looks something like black paint, if black paint didn't obey the whims of gravity.

-> Pull a pencil out of your bag to poke it.

You pull out a pencil and prod the slime with the eraser end. Your pencil sticks to it, and some of the slime gathers up at the end.

-> Attempt to pull your pencil all the way out

You try to pull your pencil free, but the ooze seems intent on hanging onto it - a thin tendril remains stuck to the end of the pencil, stretching out like taffy, until suddenly it yanks back, with far more force than you expected. The pencil slides out of your grip, courtesy of the rain, and is pulled under the grate, where it disappears underneath the edge, parallel to one of the bars.

You don't see it fall further into the drain, nor do you hear any sounds that might indicate the pencil being eaten. Though the air smells mostly of rainy city, you could swear that you can still smell Emet-Selch's cologne.

-> Tell it off for taking your pencil

"Hey!" you say. "Give that back!"

The slime appears unmoved, even when you stomp on the grate with one foot. You're getting ready to stomp again when you have that feeling again, the one of wind without wind, except this time it's... something like hands ruffling your hair, almost affectionate.

And a thought bubbles up into your mind that is both familiar - colored in the way you think of him, his voice, his scent - and unfamiliar, because it is very distinctly not coming from you. It ripples like the pool of shallow water around the stormdrain as it flows, with sarcastic amusement - 

[Try asking politely.]

-> Ask politely

"...Could I please have my pencil back?" you ask in the general direction of the storm drain.

The voice in your mind seems almost to chuckle, a flash of mood going through your mind. And the ooze slides a tendril out, holding your pencil, and then the tendril becomes thicker, and there's more, until there's about the volume of a bottle of soda sitting on top of the grate, with a long thin tendril extending your pencil up into easy reach.

-> Touch... him?

You reach out, but rather than taking your pencil by the offered bare end, you run your fingers down the tendril of ooze. It's wet, even beyond the water from the storm, but after the initial chill of contact, there is a certain warmth to it.

The presence in your mind seems to grow thicker, as you make contact. What seemed to be a tenuous connection at first now deepens, giving you a better idea of his mood, if not his thoughts.

He's tired, and cautious, even anxious, far more so than you ever would have thought of him, as confident as he usually seems. And at the corners, a slight relief, a fondness for you that you can feel emotionally as well as in the way the tendril snakes around your wrist, to deposit the pencil in your fingers.

A thought like a sigh. [I'm sure you have questions upon questions,] he says, the words more distinct now. [But first, might I trouble you for a ride home?]

-> Agree.

You sigh in return, using your other hand to shove the pencil back in your bag. "Okay," you say. "But they'd better be real answers."

[Of course,] he replies, and that usual hint of amusement is there even with his fatigue. Before you can say anything more, the tendril curled around your wrist thickens and begins to climb your arm, up into your sleeve. As you watch, more of him pours out from beneath the grate - thankfully not nearly as much as the full volume of a human body - and all of it snakes up, steadily, underneath your clothes.

-> Ask him for directions home

You wait as the last tendril of him lifts from the grate and wraps up around your fingers - that's the only part of him that remains visible, as the rest of him settles securely underneath your clothes. Like this, you can definitely tell that he's faintly warm, even as a thin-spread layer wrapped over your shoulders and hips. Unlike your clothes, that slim layer keeps the chill of the rain entirely at bay.

You straighten up and roll your shoulders. He hasn't reached for any intimate places, and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing. Even as the thought occurs to you, you wonder how much of your thoughts he can see.

"Where to?" you ask.

[For now? Your place, or downtown,] he says. [Either will do.]

-> Take him downtown.

You start walking, heading down the hill towards the center of the city. You might have guessed that he has some kind of luxury something-or-other there.

Every step makes you hyper-aware of how close to your skin he clings, and how invisible what's going on is to anyone you pass by (though there aren't many, in this weather). He's mostly spread across your back and shoulders, staying off the most sensitive regions of your chest and abdomen. Below your waistline, a thin streak runs down like garters to bands around your thighs, which grow longer and longer down your legs as you walk, like stockings being woven in place around your legs.

You shiver, and not because of the chill of the rain, which now seems so very absent everywhere except your fingers. You can't even feel it on your face anymore, even when a gust of wind kicks up and blows the raindrops into your face, because of the blush you're steadily fighting down.

He hums, against your mind, as the tendril in your hand wraps playfully around your fingers. [Everything to your liking, my dear?]

-> Ask for the next step in the directions.

"It's great," you say, maybe a little too fast. You have to be speaking at nearly a whisper, to make sure that no one sees you talking to yourself. "What's the next turn?"

A chuckle and a tendril that snakes up your neck beneath your hood, ruffling your hair as he all-too-often does with his hands. Another slides down into your damp sock, and then the same on the other side, steadily separating you from the fabric in a way far more deeply intimate than an embrace.

[Left at Franklin,] he says into your mind, and you see it as much as you get words, a mental image of turning the corner in the direction of the very highest sky scrapers in the city. You shiver again, definitely not from the cold this time, as the tendrils wrap entirely around your ankles and over the tops of your feet. [Don't be afraid to take a rest, if you need to.]

With the strangeness of the sensation at your feet, you just might, lest you find yourself tripping over them on the sidewalk.

-> Stop and sit somewhere

"Aren't you in a hurry?" you ask, as you slide into a coffee shop to get out of the rain for a few minutes.

[No one will be looking for me with you,] he answers. [Your timing was exceptionally convenient.]

You laugh lightly - whether from his words or the sensation of thick liquid crossing the bottom of your feet - and order a drink just to keep from seeming too out of place in the shop. "I try," you joke into the lid of your cup. Even as you inhale the steam of your drink, most of what you can smell is him.

-> Ask about what happened

"So who were those people, anyway?" you ask, still low into your cup. Maybe you should put an earbud from your phone into your ear, so people think you're on a call.

[You might think of them as business rivals,] he replies. You can almost feel the way he's carefully measuring his responses. [Or perhaps a religious disagreement. We have very different goals for the world.]

You take a sip from your drink. You're very aware of him on your skin when you shift in your chair, though there's no tightness or texture. It's precisely because he feels so much like a second skin that you're so very aware. "Are they hunting you?"

[Not as such,] he replies. [I simply had the bad luck to run into them unprepared, and felt the need to make myself scarce before things escalated.]

-> Ask why he was there

"Why there?" you ask. "Were you... following me?"

Silence, for a moment, and then a rippling touch over your shoulders. You're not altogether sure what it's supposed to indicate, though the impression you get from his mind, something like the sensation of throwing his head back before flopping into a chair, gives you a good indication. [Ah, you've caught me.]

-> Ask him why

"Why?" you ask into the rim of your cup. It's starting to get close to empty.

You feel the tendril in your hair ruffle it again. You're glad you didn't pull your hood down, even if you feel like it must make you look suspicious, because you can't help but want to lean into the touch. There's not really a 'him' to lean into, but you accomplish something similar by pressing your back into the seat.

[There are certain people,] he begins, [who enhance our power - indeed, a wide variety of powers that you would think of as 'supernatural' - by being close to it. I'd been considering asking if you would be my partner in that regard for some time.]

You frown into your cup. It sounds honest enough, but... "So, just practical reasons? No feelings?"

A squeeze around your thighs. [It's not the kind of partnership that could ever be just practical.]

You nod, and swallow the last of your drink. Time to get moving again.

When you stand, your balance feels slightly different, your footsteps lighter. It's like those ads for running shoes that describe it as walking on clouds, the impact of your feet on the hard floor lessened just enough that you feel almost like floating.

-> Meander the city with your thoughts and keep asking him questions

You leave the coffeeshop and set about wandering the city, a bit unsettled by his words. "Do you follow me a lot?"

[Not especially. I mostly leave you to your business - but there have been a few disappearances of people with your sort of resonance lately.]

"So I'm not special?" 

[Only to me. It's not uncommon, perhaps a percent or two of the population with latent abilities.]

You do the math, thinking of how many hundreds of thousands of people there are in the city. "And you keep track of them?"

[Myself and others of my kind,] he replies. [Surely you didn't think I was the only one.]

-> Ask about what he is

"Your kind?" you ask. You turn a corner and make a show of standing to look into the window of the little indie bookstore.

He chuckles again, and there's a feeling like him rubbing on your shoulders. [Something very like you, once,] he says. [A mortal man who had a chance encounter with a power beyond his ken. Now...] Another of those ripples over your skin, as he seems to shift all of himself around on your body to emphasize his point. [...I touched something with the power of death, and so instead of dying, when my human life came to an end, I became what I am now. Your language has no word, and ours is - ]

The word isn't a word, exactly, or perhaps it is and the sound of it whips through your mind like a wind, leaving nothing behind. But you grasp the concept, of a soul made solid, coughed up like so much blood from a dying body, a mimic of life that is not truly alive, just imitating as best it can.

-> Ask about the partnership

"What about this partnership, then?" you ask. "Would it make me..."

You can't gesture at all of him without gesturing at all of yourself, so instead you reach up into your hood to run your fingers along the tendril in your hair. It curls in your grip.

[It might,] he replies. [I will not deny that it has happened in the past, though we would need to drink deeply of each other indeed for that to happen. In lifetimes and lifetimes - there were three of us at the start, thousands of years ago, and thirteen now, unless someone's been keeping secrets recently. And most of us are not exactly shy about human partners.]

You nod, dropping your hand out of your hood. So, ridiculous medical side effects level of rare. "What do you get out of it?" you ask, starting to walk again. You aren't paying so much attention to where your feet go, now.

[It makes my human facsimile far more real,] he replies, [and enhances some other powers of mine, which is always useful. Especially if the l'Cie are poking around again - oh, here? Are you certain about that?]

You pause, and look up from the sidewalk, finding yourself face-to-construction-fence with the site of his new skyscraper.

-> Have him direct you to his place instead

You shake your head and turn down the block. "I kind of want to get out of the rain, now," you say.

[Of course.] Amusement colors his thoughts again, and you can guess why. Even though you complain about the rain, you can't really feel it anywhere but your head and hands. Everywhere else is either protected by his presence against your skin, or somewhere that would stay dry anyway. [Cross Lincoln, it will be on that side.]

You follow his directions, crossing a few more blocks to where the buildings are still tall, but can't exactly be called skyscrapers anymore - not these days, at least. The historic district is home to plenty of buildings that were considered quite tall, fifty or even a hundred years ago.

Knowing now that he's far older than he appears, you might have guessed. 

There aren't many cars here, and you pick your way across a cobblestone greenspace to the building he indicates. (You know the name of it, he told you in casual conversation about his work, but as you approach, you grow more nervous and the knowledge slips out of your mind.) 

"Did you design this, too?" you ask, and get only amusement and a mental-sound of a zipper in return. 

-> Take the elevator

You take the elevator, punching the numbered button he tells you before you even stop to look, and then pausing to be just a bit surprised that it's the floor below the top instead of the penthouse. The top button is even labeled 'Roof,' so it can't be that.

The elevator rattles a little more than you're comfortable with, and you feel the strangeness of him massaging your shoulders again as you push your hood back. The tendril remains where it is in your hair.

[Don't worry,] he says. ]Vintage elevators are always noisy.]

You roll your eyes and pretend that's what your nerves are from as you slow to a stop and step out. There's a hallway, but he guides you to the left with a soft nudge on your hips and a tugging feeling on your shoulders.

The door you come to is old, solid wood.

-> Ask about his keys

"...Do you have keys?" you ask, glancing around at the otherwise empty hallway.

He chuckles again in response and a tendril unwinds from your wrist to stretch over to the door. It wiggles and twists into the lock - you can feel the motion against your wrist, even as you step closer so he doesn't have to stretch as far - and then there's a click.

I do, but I haven't needed them in a very long time.

You twist the doorknob as he retreats back to your wrist, and open the door.

-> Step inside

You slip into his apartment and close the door behind you with a sigh. It's almost too nerve-wracking to look around until you're sure it's closed behind you.

When you do, the first thing you notice is the layout of the apartment. Rather than a normal living room, the space is large and open to the floor above, the apartment split into an art-deco set of lofts. Books cram the walls, except for the mostly-window wall to your left, which has two rows of floor-to-ceiling curtains separating it from the dimmed lights of the city. Across the large room is a twisting banister and staircase leading up to what must be a kitchen and dining area. Even the stairs themselves are bookshelves, volumes tucked in under every step.

Other than the books, and a handful of shoes near the door (you self-consciously slide yours off before you step into the rest of the space), fairly little about the place looks lived-in. There are personal touches everywhere, but everything is so perfectly aligned that you feel like it's come out of a magazine spread.

As you step away from the door, you feel him begin to slide off your shoulders, dripping out of your clothes and into a puddle on the floor.

-> Let him go

You let him flow out of your clothes, carefully stepping over the former puddle as you go to hang your soaked coat on a hook. For a long minute, he doesn't seem to move, just gently shifting and shimmering in the light as you step around him. Just when you're debating what to do, a tendril stretches up and turns on a warm yellow lamp. All the furnishings gleam all the more with the additional light.

Without the barrier he formed between you and your clothes, you're now well aware of how truly wet you've gotten.

-> Ask to borrow some clothes

"Could I borrow something to wear?" you ask, feeling yourself flush again, in the direction of the puddle. It feels somehow more awkward to address him like this than it was when you were wearing him.

[Try the spare bedroom,] he replies. Though the feeling of his thoughts is more tenuous now that he's no longer on your skin, you still get an idea of the location, on the lower floor behind a door. [There should be something that fits in lighter wardrobe, though perhaps not to your aesthetic. There is one of our number prone to leaving his possessions everywhere.]

You smile faintly, not sure if you're comforted by the idea of these mysterious others being just... people, or not. "Thanks," you say, and slip off to the bedroom in question to look through the clothes. Opening the wardrobe he indicated - who even has a wardrobe anymore, anyway? - reveals an array of clothing sized for a fairly tall person, probably a man, probably a punk or biker of some variety. Do you dress in:

-> sleepwear

After spending a few minutes eyeballing the not-entirely-unimpressive selection of lingerie in the bottom drawer, you decide that spending your first night at his place wearing his ex's underthings (or... whoever's these are) might be a bit weird, and instead opt for a pair of PJ pants and a fairly beaten T-shirt. Fortunately, your own underwear aren't that horrifically soaked through.

You change, and hang your own clothes over a heat vent to dry before you return to the main living space. It is now - so far as you can tell - empty of Emet-Selch.

-> Explore the bookshelves

You take the chance to explore the bookshelves - though there's so many of them that it's unlikely that you'll make any significant progress before he returns.

The first set of shelves, unsurprisingly, is devoted to architecture. There are three biographies of Frank Lloyd Wright, one of which is peppered with sticky note annotations sticking out of the top. Indeed, this shelf seems to be primarily about modern architecture, though some of the books are comparatively old (pre-dating color printing and modern book binding). There are papers wedged into the side of one shelf.

The next shelf is similar, but focused instead on ancient architecture. Here, in addition to older books, there are a number of books that are not in English - you can recognize German, Arabic, Greek, and Russian among the spines, just as a starting point.

-> Keep going on to the next shelf

You move on to the next shelf - there's even more non-English books here. Indeed, you would say that non-English might even be the majority of this shelf. A lot of it seems to be in Greek.

What titles you can understand indicate that this is a section on mythology - primarily Greek and Roman. There are many notebooks scattered among the shelf, likely full of Emet-Selch's own notes, though you can't be certain without pulling them out and opening them.

-> Take down a notebook to investigate

You pick one of the less-ancient-looking notebooks and pull it out of the shelf. As you'd guessed, it's full of his notes, his handwriting - but the language obscures any more relevant information you might be able to extract from it. 

You're reasonably sure this is Latin. You're still squinting at it when you hear footsteps above you, and an amused chuckle.

-> Own your nosiness

You close the notebook and turn, but don't look at all embarrassed as you look up (and... up) at him. Emet-Selch has dressed in a more comfortable version of his usual; in spite of the pajama pants, you can't exactly call it more casual, when the button-up shirt he's wearing is almost billowing, with lace hanging from the cuffs. It's almost strange to see him in a human shape again.

"I hope you didn't grow too bored waiting for me," he says, leaning his elbows on the railing. "Care to come up here?"

-> Go up to him

You climb the stairs, notebook still tucked under your arm. The stairs are a little steeper than you're used to, probably to accommodate the books. He's turned to lean his back against the railing when you arrive, and crosses the small dining area in short steps to offer you his hand.

-> Embrace him

You slide your hand into his, giving it a squeeze, before you step closer and wrap your arms around your waist, dropping the notebook onto the little dining table. He returns the embrace easily, wrapping his other arm around your shoulders.

He's still warm. Even now that you know to pay attention, there is nothing that distinguishes him from a normal human in any way, except that the moment your skin meets his, you can feel it again, the brush of his mind against yours.

You sigh, and use your other hand to angle his face into a brief kiss, which he returns with a smile. When it breaks, he says, "You're taking this better than I thought you might, all things considered."

-> "It's still you."

"Well, it's still you, isn't it?" you say. "Just... with a few added possibilities."

His eyebrows rise, with a glitter of curiosity. "And do those possibilities intrigue you?"

-> "Not as much as you."

"Not as much as you," you say. Even leaning into his touch like this, there are still so many things you want to know.

He makes an amused sound. "By all means, darling. Ask what you will."

-> Ask about his goals

"What do you want?" you say, resting your weight against his chest. "You mentioned earlier that that other group - the l'Cie, I think? - had different goals from yours, but just what goals are those?"

He hums, and reaches up to run his fingers through your hair, down the back of your neck. "There are things in this world powerful enough to be called gods," he says. "And sometimes the opportunity to influence the birth of such a being comes about. We seek to create a being who would help to maintain the world as it is, so that all might prosper. Others... seek otherwise."

You think on that for a moment, and then nod.

-> Ask about his intentions for you

"And where do I fit into all this?" you ask.

"The next opportunity for such a creation will be within the next five years or so," he says. "To have another on our side, in any capacity, would be a boon. A partner even more so, especially should it come to an outright contest. But putting aside the practical considerations..."

He cups your face with one hand, and you feel, rather than see, the change that comes over it, his fingers melting into a delicate touch that spreads across your skin. It sets a shiver down your spine, but you do not pull away.

"I would like to hold you," he says. "To know you, in the capacity that only creatures such as my kind might, and to see you grow and blossom. I think that you will be one of the ones who is worth the effort."

-> "You can hold me."

You tip your head, leaning into his touch, as strange as the sensation is. It's strange, and perhaps dangerous; certainly, it makes your heart beat faster. But there is a security in it, too, in the trust you give him.

"You can hold me," you say, knowing what he means. After all, he is already holding you in the sense that a human would. "Please."

He looks at you, golden eyes hooded, and then leans forward just long enough to kiss your forehead before he dissolves into black fluid, his clothes fluttering to the ground as the fluid begins to wrap around you.

-> Stay where you are

You stay where you are, as he wraps himself around you, more intimate than an embrace. He flows under your clothes, gentle but firm, and this time he does not stop to restrict himself to regions of 'polite' contact. Much faster than when you were walking home in the rain, he covers you, completely from the neck down.

The sensation of the borrowed clothes against your skin, your underwear, disappears. All you can feel is him - massaging gently at your skin, warm against both your flesh and your mind. You lift your hand and turn it in the light - now that you are somewhere where you can see better, you can see that his black has a sheen of faint gold iridescence to it.

-> Stay where you are

You remain where you are, even as your knees wobble, running your hands over yourself. You can't feel much besides pressure, at least at this moment, but your hands run smoothly over even the other places he's coated you without a hitch. When you rub your fingertips across your cheek, it's dry and smooth without being plastic-y.

And yet you can't help but consider the strength behind the feeling, the touch that feels like fingers along your spine. "Could you force me to move like this?" you ask.

[I could,] he says, and for a moment you feel a stiffness that it makes it hard to breathe, before he relaxes again. [But only if you desire it.]

:crown: -> Tell him to do as he pleases with you

"I want what you want," you say. "Go ahead."

You feel him chuckle into your mind, and you have just long enough to wonder what you've gotten yourself into before your body begins to move. It feels, mostly, like being puppeted, the outer skin of him moving and pulling your body along with it, but there is something about his touch that keeps you flexible, almost limp, unless you try to fight against it.

[If you decide to follow through on my offer, it will be less awkward,] he says. [In partnership, two move as one.]

You know, and you think he knows as well, what your decision is already. But you appreciate that he gives you the chance to back out, to experience this before you completely commit.

He moves your body with a steady confidence, and begins by pulling your borrowed shirt over your head and tossing it down with his own abandoned clothes. It reveals more of your covered skin to shine beneath the lights. He continues, climbing the back of your neck to better control the angle of your head as he removes your pants and underwear.

-> Ask him to touch you

"Ah," you say, your breath catching in your throat. "Could you - touch me."

You feel him chuckle inside your mind. Before he answers, he stretches your arms above your head, seemingly intent on finding the exact point where it becomes a strain. [Ask politely.]

"Could you please - " you begin, and then gasp as sensation runs up from between your legs, as he responds to your desire.

[That's better,] he replies. Even as he touches you, exploring you intimately, he continues his wider exploration of your body's capabilities. Just enough pressure that you dearly want more, as he tests how high you can lift your legs, how far you can bend your spine. He toys with your entrance, applying pressure without entering you, and quite firmly keeps you from grinding your hips on nothing the way your body wants to.

He's teasing you, toying with you, testing you.

-> Test him back

You try to move your arms, to release them from the way he bends them, to slide them down so that you can apply pressure yourself. In response, you feel his grip on your flesh tighten up.

There is a strange tone to his thoughts when he asks, [Do you want me to give you up so easily?] It takes you a moment to realize that under the layers of teasing, the question is genuinely meant - he wants to know how much you want to push, if you truly want control back or not.

-> Tell him you want to work for it

You exhale a little sharply, and shake your head, at least as much as you can - he's steadily been inching his way up to your chin, which makes moving your head difficult. "I want to earn it," you say, tone breathy from both exertion and desire. You wouldn't think that having your body puppeted around would be such a workout, but here you are.

[To earn your freedom, or to earn this?] he asks, putting a sudden, much firmer pressure against your entrance. Your hips try to twitch, involuntarily, but he holds them still. In the wordless things of his thoughts, you can feel the way he relaxes, as he slides back into character.

You find yourself relaxing, too. "Both," you say without hesitation.

He chuckles into your mind, lifting your arms over your head. [I'm afraid you can only have one. Choose.]

-> Him inside you

You let yourself go slack, struggling concluded. You want to know what it will feel like, to have this inside you; want to spread your legs for it, but submit to his control over them, which keeps them together. He likely doesn't need such assistance, anyway.

"You," you say, in a whisper. You feel him creeping further up the back of your neck, flowing between the strands of your hair.

[Good choice,] he says. But he doesn't do anything more than brush against your entrance again, and rub at you in a way that makes you want to grind your hips. This time, you make the effort to try and keep them still without his assistance.

Your arms are still above your head. The covering of him creeps over your cheeks, wrapping around your ears. You can guess what it's going to do, and so are distracted, thinking of that, when he suddenly swings your weight forward, pushing off with your legs as the front of your body goes down, until you find yourself in a handstand. Your legs shift, until your feet are pointed perfectly towards the ceiling, and the pressure at the back of your neck keeps your neck straight, the top of your head pointed perfectly downward.

[Now,], he says, [ask politely.]

-> Ask politely

You gulp. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your saliva in this position. You may as well be chained to a board, for all the ability you have to move at the moment. Your body strains and trembles - he's supporting enough of your weight that you won't fall, but you can still feel how your muscles would have to work to maintain this position on your own.

One of his tendrils ruffles your hair, before pulling it back, taking control of it away from gravity.

"Please," you say. "Fill me."

He doesn't respond verbally, but there is a trailing like fingers down your back and a sigh into your mind, a sound aching with satisfaction. He doesn't right you from the position you're in; he simply increases the pressure between your legs, against your entrance, as you are. You fight not to squirm, as a slim tendril enters you, rapidly thickening, pushing deeper against your pleasure, filling you.

You moan, as a ripple of thickness down the tendril inside you simulates a thrust without ever leaving you empty, and would lose your battle against squirming if you were not held still. He fills your ears, blocking the sounds of the outside world, and presses a tendril to the corner of your mouth.

[Will you give me this, as well?] he asks, tone gentler, no longer the teasing domination of before.

-> Open your mouth

You can neither nod nor shake your head, but you open your mouth for his probing, and it is consent enough. He thrusts below again, thicker-feeling this time, as an apparent reward, and then enters your mouth. Inside, he pushes your jaw open even as he pins down your tongue, forcing your mouth into the maximum capacity it can handle. His taste is both sweet and bitter, with an astringent feeling that leaves you with an impression of honeyed wine, or perhaps pomegranate juice.

You close your eyes, and he covers those, as well. He fills the inside of your nose, not blocking your breath, but sealing you away from the ability to small anything but him. Taste anything but him, feel anything but him. Experience anything but him, expanding and contracting at an increased pace inside you, stretched so wide, held by him and ultimately receptive.

You do not need the increase in pace. The realization of how connected you are to him, of all your senses being his as well as your body, is enough to send you over. What the continued thrusting does is extend it, making that tumble off the cliff last. You cannot scream his name, or anything else, with your tongue trapped beneath his control, but you think you scream something.

As you come down, the restriction on your senses is almost comforting, even as the scent and taste of him is overwhelming. He does not leave you, though he allows your jaw to relax and the tendril inside you ceases the sensation of thrusting and collapses down to a point that you are only aware of it, instead of overwhelmingly filled by it. Without any other options for communication, you open yourself, and reach out for his mind - 

-> Ask to be let down

[...Can I come down now?] you try to ask, bending your thoughts towards his. And then, quite literally as an afterthought, you add, [Please?]

The sensation of his thoughts is not merely a chuckle, but a full laugh. [You may,] he answers, already loosening the positioning of your legs, [But it might be best if you allow me to control the motions.]

You hum your consent aloud. You can't be sure that you would be able to get out of this position without falling, right now - if you're honest, you can't be sure that you could get out of this position without falling under normal circumstances. Somehow, he manages to move your legs in a way that feels almost graceful.

As he does, he also pulls out of your mouth and nose, rolling himself back from your face to settle around your neck again. Your hair falls in disarray as he releases it. You take deep breaths as he walks you to a couchlike bench against the window and sits you down before releasing control entirely. 

-> "Can we do that again, sometime?"

"Can we do that again?" you say, still trying to catch your breath. "Not now, but... sometime? Though, maybe without the handstand." Truthfully, you wouldn't be opposed to some more, now, though perhaps not something that intense.

He chuckles, and you feel the sensation of pressure mimicking his arms around your shoulders. You lean into it, pulling your feet up on the seat with you. [We certainly can,] he replies. [And will, if you decide to accept my offer. The process of becoming partners is very similar, though with a great deal more ritual around it. The only difference...]

He trails off. You can feel him waiting for you to ask the question, so you do. "The difference is...?"

He trails a line of pressure from under your chin, down your throat and chest, to your stomach. [The difference is that you swallow, and a part of me stays.]

You close your eyes, thinking of it - of him both outside and inside you - and where you feel like it should make you nervous...

"That sounds nice."


End file.
